


Knight takes Knights

by GreenWaters



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aramis Whump, Athos Whump, Banter, Charles Gallagher - Freeform, Deception, Gallows Humor, Gen, Hostage Situations, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, POV Aramis, POV Athos, POV Porthos, Present Tense, Protective Porthos, Violence, s01e09 The Musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWaters/pseuds/GreenWaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU ending to s1e9 Knight takes Queen. The scene between Athos and Gallagher outside the abbey seemed to promise an exciting confrontation with a worthy adversary - this short tale explores what might have happened if all hadn't gone so well at the end of the siege. Now complete.</p><p>  <i> A wordless exclamation leaves Athos’ lips. After so many narrow escapes, so many brushes with death, he has slowly learned to expect the deus ex machina - the sounds of their brothers on the stairs charging to their rescue. But Porthos and d'Artagnan have not - perhaps cannot - come. And the vulnerability of their position only now truly makes itself felt - with Aramis’ head sinking back against the stone wall, and his own fingers frozen in indecision. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. En prise

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, The scene between Athos and Gallagher outside the abbey seemed to promise a confrontation with a worthy adversary, like the episodes featuring Vadim and Marmion. The siege was well done, but with all the extra things going on in this story, it felt like a little bit of Gallagher’s potential as a bad guy was lost. So this action/adventure based tale explores what might have happened if all hadn’t gone so well at the end of the siege. A few plot points are different for the sake of setting up a dramatic ending.  
> 

“Did I mention this has to count?” Athos allows a sardonic smile to draw up the corner of his mouth. The weight of his pistol is heavy in his lap. Two shots between them and at least four of Gallagher’s men remain...

“Thanks for the reminder,” Aramis nods with mock sincerity as he turns across their barricade - his arquebus poised.

Athos reaches over to grasp his friend’s leg, careful not to impede his aim. “The Queen?”

They share a brief look, and Aramis shakes his head. “She is safe - for now.”

Athos grinds his teeth. There is sense in keeping Her Majesty's location secret, but it irks him to be kept in the dark. He cannot prevent his thoughts from drifting back to the sight of Aramis and the Queen lying together so peacefully that morning. Torn again between amusement and strangling the man, he quashes the impulse swiftly. “If nothing more, tell me whether she remains in the abbey.” 

The younger Musketeer’s hand falters on his weapon as muffled noises in the corridor filter through to their position. “She does not,” he mouths silently, his eyes wide and filled with meaning. 

A breath he didn’t realise he was holding slips past Athos’ lips, and the usual steady calm of combat finally settles over him. At least he knows now that there is a chance to keep the gunman from his quarry. But if Gallagher discovers that Her Majesty is alone and unprotected outside the abbey walls before she has the chance to hide or find assistance, all will be lost. The man will stop at nothing. Athos had seen the unflinching resolution in his bearing as they faced each other outside the Abbey - had understood the depths of his determination as he gunned down his own companion. Neither pain nor pity would move this man’s heart to spare the Queen, and beneath the assassin’s military exterior was the bitterness of a soul cast aside in favour of the more privileged. Gallagher could have no love for the Musketeers, who had everything denied to himself.

“Why did you not accompany her?”

“It was not -, “ Aramis hesitates, “- let us just say that my stature did not allow it.”

Athos raises an eyebrow with a silent quip about the ‘stature’ Aramis had displayed the night before with the Queen.

Aramis rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Athos recalls the bolt holes and secret passages below his own estate at Pinon and forms an image of the Queen’s escape. “That is quite the risk you took. Let us hope it pays off.”

The silence is broken as a knife is tossed into the hall - a cheap trick to test their ammunition. The two musketeers share an amused look.

As the first of Gallagher’s men steps out from behind cover, Aramis’ shot tears through the enclosed space - deafening. Sure of the sharpshooter’s marksmanship, Athos readies another jibe - only to have it violently cut off as a second blast follows the first. Aramis is ripped sideways as a shot drives into his exposed side. His stifled cry fills the space between them - and brief, paralyzing shock pins Athos to the barricade as Aramis writhes backwards, breath hitching. 

A wordless exclamation leaves Athos’ lips. After so many narrow escapes, so many brushes with death, he has slowly learned to expect the deus ex machina - the sounds of their brothers on the stairs charging to their rescue. But Porthos and d'Artagnan have not - perhaps _cannot_ \- come. And the vulnerability of their position only now truly makes itself felt - with Aramis’ head sinking back against the stone wall, and his own fingers frozen in indecision. 

Tearing his eyes away, Athos lines up his shot, breaths, and fires their last bullet at the man who is now inches from the barricade. A blaze of gunpowder swallows the man’s fall. _For Aramis_ , he thinks, then turns back to his brother who is looking up at him with face rapidly paling and hands grasping at his side. Athos knows they do not have time, but scrambles to pull Aramis’ hands away and peel aside the leather surcoat hiding the wound. It is no use. Aramis’ belt impedes his progress, and he cannot see the extent of the damage. 

“Leave it,” Aramis hisses, pushing him back. Both their hands are now red with blood. 

“Hold on,” Athos says - because he cannot find any words of comfort.

Aramis gives him a weak smile and squeezes his eyes shut against the pain. He takes a laboured breath. "If I ever complain about - an assignment - not being exciting enough - ". 

Athos scrabbles for his pistol and retrieves it from the floor, his thoughts sluggish but finally taking shape. He draws his sword silently, the blade taking agonizing seconds to come free, and with his left arm takes aim down the corridor with his spent pistol. With the familiar motion a tenuous calm washes over him and he stands, stepping over the barricade. 

Gallagher moves out confidently from behind the wall, his own pistol leveled. Two armed men flank his position, and Athos can make out at least another two behind. The gunman’s expression is intense - pale eyes darting - searching for Anne.

“Stay back.” 

Gallagher eyes Athos’ pistol. “You’re out,” he challenges.

“Are you willing to take the risk?” A slight tremor runs through his arm as small noises from Aramis - so difficult to ignore - make themselves heard. 

Gallagher sniffs, and takes another step forwards. From his new vantage point, he can see Aramis sprawled against their barricade - white and bleeding - his discarded arquebus behind. The man’s lips pull into a tight line, and Athos can see satisfaction and confidence building.

“Your friend is bleeding out. It’s over.” The gunman motions with his pistol for Athos to move away. “Step aside. The Queen is mine.”

Gallagher cannot see behind them to the corners of their refuge, and still believes her Majesty to be hidden. Athos thanks whatever fate convinced Aramis not to bring the Queen down here. Two motivations war within him - the longer he prevaricates, the better chance the Queen has for escape or rescue - but the passing moments could be draining away Aramis’ life blood. Where were Porthos and d'Artagnan? Perhaps Gallagher’s men have thwarted their return to Paris...

“What kind of Musketeer would I be if allowed you to take the Queen?”

Gallagher is quick with his reply, “One who’s not ready to die.” He cannot be sure that Athos’ pistol, trained on his chest, is not loaded. The gunman narrows his eyes, a twist of his lips driving up Athos’ heartbeat as he recognises the other man’s confidence return. “When this began,” he says slowly, “I claimed that one of us would die - but perhaps I had it wrong.” Gallagher swings his pistol down to point at Aramis. “ _Step aside_.” His eyes remain on Athos - staring him down - daring him to risk his friend’s life.

Athos’ gaze follows the motion of the weapon. Aramis’ hand twitches - an involuntary response to staring down the barrel of a gun. But there is no firearm to reach for, no escape should the man fire in that enclosed space. Aramis breathes heavily, his wide eyes full of warning. “Athos - do not-”

Athos does not react at first, clenching his jaw. Their ruse is ended. The time gained by this banter is not worth the risk of provoking Gallagher’s ire - and the Irishman would soon lose patience. He turns back to address the gunman. "My friend needs medical attention. If I step aside, you will see that his wounds are seen to." Athos gives his terms as a command, but knows their bargaining power is lost. He can feel Aramis’ eyes boring into his back, begging him not to surrender their position yet.

Gallagher’s mouth quirks at the nerve of his opponent. “We shall see,” he says, and there is no mercy in his tone.

Slowly, Athos lowers his gun - lets it fall with a soft thud to the sandy floor and kicks it across the sand towards the group of men. Gallagher stoops to retrieve it, and Athos shares a look of grim satisfaction with the gunman as he discovers that the Musketeer’s weapon had not been loaded. 

Gallagher appraises Athos with both begrudging respect and increased caution, then cocks his head with a silent order. His men barrell forwards, and Athos can’t help but stiffen as gloved hands grip his upper arms and slam him face first against the stone wall of the chamber. His breath leaves his body as he is crushed against the wall - his right wrist slammed repeatedly against the stone to force his sword from his hand. Pain spasms up his arm and he curls his fingers into fists. 

“Hold him,” Gallaher warns, and Athos feels his own main gauche drawn and the sharp press of steel against his lower back. The vulnerability of the position is humiliating, and he welcomes the distraction of the cold stone against his cheek. Gallagher’s footsteps crunch in the sand behind, and he waits, blind, for the inevitable moment when the man discovers their deception. 

“She’s not here!” Gallagher’s curses are followed by a scuffle, and a pained cry. It was too much to hope that the man would leave them be and continue his search. Muffled words follow, and Athos can make out little as more sounds of brutality break out from behind.

_If that’s how I deal with my own men, imagine what I’ll do with you._

Gallagher’s words at their first meeting return to Athos with stark clarity, and his impotent position is suddenly suffocating and intolerable. 

“Aramis!” Athos’ breath is short from the weight pressing him to the wall. Unthinking, he drives his heel into one of his captor’s knees, and feels the pressure on his back ease. Turning inwards and using the wall as leverage, he throws a punch over his left shoulder. His knuckles glance off the jaw of the man still holding him, but he knows at once that his blow lacked power. The large man slackens his grip but does not let go, and twists Athos’ arm up behind until he chokes out a sound, fearing dislocation or worse. 

As another man seizes his free arm, footsteps approach and a heavy blow to the side of the head sends him reeling. The men do not let him fall with the impact of the blow, and instead he sags, disorientated, and draws in deep breaths until his vision returns.

He opens his eyes to the sight of Gallagher wiping blood from the butt of his gun before jamming it back into his belt. The side of his face burns, and his left eye is difficult to open. Through blurred vision he seeks for Aramis, for reassurance that he yet lives - but the other man is curled protectively upon the floor of the chamber, unmoving. _Do not leave me here alone_ \- he thinks suddenly - selfishly - _do not lay another life - the best of lives - on this pitiful conscience._

Gallagher’s hat is askew and his usually controlled features dark. He approaches deliberately and gasps the back of Athos’ head, pulling it back to expose his throat to the flat of a blade. Athos recognises the distinctive hilt of his own dagger, and resists the impulse to pull back from the steel. It is strange how a blade inspires so much more visceral promise of pain that a firearm. 

“Where is she?” The slightly crazed look in the man’s eyes is mirrored by Athos’ own as Gallagher brings his face close to the Musketeer’s. The gunman _lives_ for his mission, and they have thwarted him. 

Athos grits his reply out between clenched teeth, fearful of moving his jaw against the sharp knife edge. He can already feel warm drops of blood seeping down the neck of his shirt. “She is gone. You will not find her.”

Gallagher breaths out through his nose. He speaks to his men, but doesn’t break his gaze. “Search the abbey. If you find nothing - search the grounds.” 

Athos cannot turn his head to check how many men have departed, but footsteps quickly obey Gallagher’s orders, echoing up the stairs and into the other levels of the building. If they could just turn the tables now, they might have an even chance.

Gallagher shakes him, drawing his attention back to his burning stare. “What is the Queen to you that you should die here, forgotten?"

Athos does not often let himself question his duty - to do so would be to unravel the tenuous peace he has found - his reason to rise each morning. But nor is he blind to Louis’ foibles and vanity - his power to inflict suffering and neglect. But Anne - young and naive, yes - but also the steadfast, compassionate hand behind the throne, is worthy of any drop of blood spilt in her protection. 

When he gives no reply, Gallagher’s lips twist into mockery. “Perhaps you’ve been bedding her? Or maybe she has been whoring herself out to the pretty one?” The watching men snicker as Gallagher indicates Aramis, but Gallagher’s eyes remain cold. “Why give your lives to protect her?”

Athos calculates the voices of at least three men still remaining. He tries to ignore the sharp pain of the man's fingers tangled in his hair, and thinks of the tenderness between his old friend and the Queen. Not some sordid liaison but two souls seeking comfort - and knows the Irishman underestimates the ties that bind them together - having no such loyalties himself. Perhaps what he himself might have become without his brothers to keep him to duty and hope.

“Honour,” he drawls disdainfully - provokingly, and takes a last look towards Aramis, expecting the cold bite of steel at his throat. It will be justice, perhaps, for his own past failings - but he hopes he has not left his friend to die here alone in the darkness. 

Aramis is struggling - and failing - to lift himself. Beneath the blood dripping down his face, his eyes burn with the determination to act. Athos cannot see, but perhaps they are no longer outnumbered. Perhaps help is at hand.

The dagger is suddenly drawn away from his neck, leaving a stinging line in its wake. But even as he acknowledges the temporary reprieve, Gallagher shifts and sinks the point of the blade into the soft flesh at his shoulder. 

“I’m not given to cruelty.” Gallagher is speaking - but his own breath is suddenly loud in Athos’ ears - and the gunman is holding him firmly in place as he slowly forces the blade deeper. “But you forfeited your chance of a merciful death when you set foot inside the convent.” 

Pain does not initially take hold. He sees Aramis’ mouth open wordlessly, and the slow heat is spreading down his arm. As Gallagher releases him, the men let him slip to his knees. It’s the sight of the dagger still lodged in the wound that darkens the corners of his vision, and he fights the tipping world only long enough to hear the gunman’s words.

“An old friend sends her regards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! It’s been wonderful to find a new fandom and read all the great work out there. Feedback / comments welcome :)
> 
> _**Chapter title:** En prise - chess term (French) - unprotected and exposed to capture ___


	2. Clouée

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to comment and leave support for this story - it's a very encouraging start :) I've adopted some chapter titles relating to chess (definitions at the end of the chapter) - if any French-speaking chess players spot any issues with these - please jump in with a comment. Enjoy!

_Athos._

Aramis wakes with his friend’s name on his lips, but does not remember why.

Darkness. 

As he clutches at lost threads of memory, the discomfort takes him slowly - cruelly - blossoming outwards from a parched throat and stiffness of limb, to a heavy, deep seated agony. Fearful of crying out, he stuffs his sleeve between his teeth and bites down. The taste of leather and sweat calms him. He is reminded of other dangers endured - and survived. 

Forcing his eyes wide to see the extent of his injuries, he realises it is futile. No glimmer of light breaks through the black surrounds, and his eyes water with the effort. Some of it has come back to him now - their final stand in the tunnels. Gallagher’s face - inches from his own and demanding answers - falling as the gunman released the hold on his collar, and the vicious impact of the stone floor. Nothing more. 

Now Aramis is slumped back against a wall; the stone is cutting into his shoulderblades. With his teeth he slides the glove from his right hand, and hesitatingly moves his fingers down his side to probe at the leather. The material is shredded at the point where the bullet entered, and thankfully, he thinks queasily, at the back where it has passed through. He remembers thinking briefly that he had been lucky. Had the bullet gone a little further right, he would not be here to remember it. He does not feel lucky now - but faint, and on the edge of slipping back into the clutching darkness. His blood is not flowing, however - a very good sign - and the leather of his jacket and trousers remains soaked through. He had not been unconscious long, then.

 _Athos._ Was he alone? Why was he still alive? There is something pressed against his side - perhaps... Reaching tentatively into the darkness, he flinches as his fingertips meet resistance. A steadying breath. If there was anything in this room that meant him harm - he would know about it by now. His soft probing reveals leather, skin and the scratch of a beard - Athos - and he is breathing.

As Aramis draws his arm back, breathless from the physical exertion but comforted, his hand brushes something cold and sharp. Athos shifts, a low moan drawn forth. Aramis’ palm is suddenly stinging, and a warm droplet is making its way along his skin. _Oh God - no_. Leaning over and carefully tracing the shape, he reaches the point where the sharp blade pierces through the leather at his friend’s shoulder. 

His tenuous calm is shattered and the nausea takes hold. Usually so dependable on the battlefield and in the infirmary, his stomache has been undone by this last discovery. He leans aside and retches, and is left with a foul taste in his mouth and a cramping heat at his side. 

“No more!” he breaths. It is not the pain. He has known pain - been hit, stabbed, shot - more times than his memory can dredge up. It is this accursed day. Isabelle. _His_ Isabelle lost - and with her, perhaps, his delusions of the life he _should_ have had - thought he had wanted. And then Anne. _Impossible_ Anne. Does she still live? And now Athos… He knows the loss of blood is making him delirious - but is powerless to halt his descent.

A strong grasp closes around his wrist. “Aramis?”

“I’m here,” he says quickly, his voice hitching.

“Tell me it wasn’t the Blue Boar again?” Athos grates. The notorious drinking establishment was the site of one of their recent escapades. Athos cannot know how his familiar, dry tones steady Aramis’ racing heart.

“Worse,” he replies, as Athos frees his wrist. “It’s best if you don’t try to move,” Aramis cautions, and is unsurprised when the other man ignores him and shifts. His friend’s resulting curse almost makes him smile - his stubbornness so predictable. He hears Athos slump back, temporarily defeated.

In the quiet, Aramis’ memories slowly return, and he re-lives the gut wrenching helplessness of watching Gallagher determinedly slice into his friend’s shoulder. Upon realising the man’s intentions, Aramis had forced all his resolve into the need to move, _move_ before it was too late - but his limbs had not obeyed. Now, he presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose, hoping to dislodge the recollection. He had believed the man was moving in for the kill, and though endlessly grateful for the second chance, was confused by their survival.

Several long moments pass before Aramis voices the question that has been nagging at him. “Why are we still alive?” He can picture Athos’ furrowed brow, and knows the other man is methodically working over the options. 

“A few reasons come to mind,” Athos says slowly. “Firstly, in recompense for the trouble we’ve caused, he is granting us a slow and painful death.”

“Thank you for that possibility,” Aramis snipes.

“Or perhaps,” Athos continues, “if Gallagher cannot locate the Queen within the convent, he may return with more questions…” He leaves the words hanging and Aramis becomes more keenly aware of his own discomfort. He shifts his aching limbs and swallows with difficulty - his tongue feels thick from several hours without water. 

He thinks of Anne. Their liaison has been brief - but unique - such bravery and poise in one so young. How much could he endure for her sake? 

“Thinking of the Queen?” Athos’ voice is dry, but Aramis likes to imagine there is a touch of good humour beneath the words.

He nods, forgetting that his friend cannot see him. “I know you think me impulsive - flighty-”

“Suicidal,” Athos cuts in harshly, then sighs. “But given our current... _situation_ , I do not begrudge you the memory - however foolish.” 

Aramis rests his own head back against the stone wall, listening to their breathing for long moments. When Athos doesn’t speak, he says, “This isn’t how I imagined it ending.” The words sound hollow, and he knows Athos can feel the small tremors of pain that are shaking his form where their arms touch. “I always thought-”

“In a blaze of glory, sacrificing yourself for a noble cause?” Athos’ sardonic tone melds into warmth as he reaches out in the dark and grasps Aramis’ arm again. “My dear friend, what cause is more noble than saving the Queen?”

Aramis smiles sadly in the dark, considering the point. Perhaps the sacrifice feels hollow because there is no-one here to witness it. How easy it had been to leap upon an unexploded bomb in a crowded street - compared to this slow fade…

“Now.” Athos’ fingers harden on his wrist. “You’re going to remove the knife.”

Aramis begins to pull away, but the movement sparks off pain in his side and he relents weakly. “It may be better to leave it -”

“- we need a weapon - and I am not waiting here to die of thirst.”

“Always thinking of your drinking,” Aramis breaths. 

Athos draws Aramis’ hand inexorably towards the dagger, and closes his fingers around its hilt. He can feel small flinches through the weapon and licks his lips, steadying himself for the task. At times like this he curses his role as their ad hoc medic, and the unwavering reliance his brothers seem to place on his ability to miraculously patch up the worst of their scrapes. He is grateful that at least this time he cannot see his friend’s face. He hesitates, bracing Athos’ shoulder. 

“Do it.” 

He obeys, pulling the dagger away swiftly. The blade slides free easily, but he cringes at Athos’ stifled gasp and the way the other man draws away from his side to regain his composure in darkness. There had been no resistance on the blade - a good sign - but deep heaving breaths fill the space between them and wipe the joviality from their banter for long moments. 

“Let me-,” he says at last, reaching out to examine the damage. “It’s difficult to judge in the dark…”

“Uh - curse the man,” Athos grates, as Aramis’ fingertips probe the wetness around the wound, “- and my own knife -” 

“You’ll want to keep it.” Aramis carefully hands back the dagger. “In case the opportunity to _return_ it to Gallagher arises.”

“Can you walk?” Athos asks thickly once all their ministrations are complete.

The exertion has left Aramis breathless and pained, and he wonders again whether their efforts are futile. “Of course,” he replies, determined to regain some of his customary optimism - for his friend’s sake. “I was lucky.”

Athos, groaning as he raises himself to a kneeling position, waits for Aramis to follow. “You missed your shot, you know.”.

Aramis needs Athos’ steadying arm beneath him to rise, and focusses on his retort rather than the dizziness that threatens to send him back to the floor. “I never miss.” 

“Tell that to the man who now has my bullet in his chest. I’m always cleaning up your messes...” 

Aramis thinks back to the last time he had to talk a barman out of reporting his friend for drunken brawling, and considers them even.

As the blood rushes to his head, Aramis is alarmed at his inability to stand straight. He gropes for Athos in the darkness, but the other man has already moved away to search the walls. “Athos!” Cold sweat breaks out and he takes several steadying breaths, willing himself to remain standing. He feels Athos return to his side just as a noise sounds outside the chamber. 

Torchlight suddenly floods the room, forcing them both to squint after their imprisonment in the dark. His heart sinks as he makes out the silhouette of Gallagher in the doorway.

“I’ll bet I’m not who you were hoping to see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the change of pace. More trouble with Gallagher coming up next time. Feedback / comments welcome :)
> 
> _**Chapter title:** Clouée - chess term (French) - Pinned - a defending piece cannot move without exposing a more valuable piece._


	3. Pion empoisonné

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aramis fails to avoid Gallagher’s grasp and his hands are brought roughly together. The Irishman’s breath is hot on his face. “And you thought the difficult part was breaking into the convent...” he says, watching the man’s eyes for a reaction._

Porthos counts six of them. 

“Hold,” he signals to his two companions, squinting through the grey drizzle.

He breaths in the thick, oppressive air. The bright sun has faded with the onset of rain. Porthos doesn't normally mind rain. Precise swordplay and footwork are no advantage in the wet. More than once, slippery mud and distracting conditions have tipped the scales in favour of his weight and strength. But today his leathers cling to his skin, and he must wipe the sweat from his eyes to better see the group of men and clustered around the gate. 

The gunpowder has cleared and the tall figure with his hands raised is unmistakably Aramis. Porthos feels the relief deep in his gut, where fear had been brewing since they parted the day before. But the spring in Aramis' step is missing, and his feet catch on the rough stones of the entryway as he limps closer to Porthos’ position. 

“Musketeers,” Aramis calls. “You know me. Come forward so that we can discuss terms.”

Porthos identifies Gallagher - scruffy beard, pale eyes and a broad-brimmed hat - matching the Queen’s description. And, Porthos sees with a sinking heart, Athos kneeling at his feet, his wrists bound and the gunman’s pistol resting against his neck. _The bastards_.

The stable boy lets out a small noise and Porthos glances sideways. Jacques' mouth is half open, and he is white around the gills. His wide eyes move between the dark stain at Aramis’ side and the fresh gashes across Athos' cheek and jaw. He is new to the Garrison, and it's likely his familiarity with blood is limited to Serge’s rare steaks. Porthos would have liked to spare the boy this introduction, but with d’Artagnan and an injured Treville forced to accompany the Queen to safety, Porthos had few options.

"What's the plan?" Surge asks in a painfully loud whisper.

Porthos shakes his head. “Negotiate.”

As he strides confidently out from behind cover Porthos hopes to catch Aramis’ eye, but Aramis is now looking away, a bitter twist to his expression.

Disturbed, Porthos seeks for Athos and finds a familiar raised eyebrow as his friend takes in the new recruits. The rapidly constructed costumes, Serge's ridiculous hat, and the ancient weapon that the cook is gripping like a club may have passed for truth under the cover of gunfire, but look foolish in the light of day.

“This is your regiment of elite Musketeers?” Gallagher asks Athos. “An old man and a boy who has never held a weapon in his life." As Porthos draws up within a few paces, the Irishman makes a small threatening movement towards Jacques and the boy flinches back, his gun arm wavering wildly.

Gallagher glances over at Aramis, seemingly for confirmation.

"The cook and the stable boy-" the marksman says after a pause, still with that ugly twist to his lips.

The words break upon Porthos like cold water. He stares at his friend, unsure that he has heard the words correctly.

"- and Porthos." Aramis drags his name out as a sneer. "Did Treville have no one else to send?" 

Gallagher is smiling, the lines on his face creasing in unfamiliar lines.

He knows it to be false, but the scorn in Aramis’ eyes is strangely hurtful. Porthos attempts to convey reassurance in his stance, but a small part of him is doubting the decision to reveal themselves. They are not vastly outnumbered, his three to Gallagher’s five, and had his fellow Musketeers been beside him he would have been laughing.

“Porthos of the King's Musketeers," Porthos begins, wishing to at least confirm his own authenticity. “It’s over. You’re trapped an’ outgunned. The Queen-”

Athos’ eyes suddenly turn full upon him, and Porthos falters. He had been about to announce that the Queen was safe.

He wipes at his brow again to hide his discomfort before continuing. “The Queen remains missing. You’re to be taken an' questioned.”

Gallagher’s eyes are slitted as he nods slowly. Porthos is accustomed to his size giving him an edge for intimidating first impressions, but the gunman doesn’t show any sign of backing down. “You have your orders,” he says slowly, “but I know you Musketeers - you look after your own.”

There is a bitterness in the man’s voice that makes Porthos wonder if the Irishman has had some connection with the King’s men - perhaps a rejected commission? His men, however, seem to be amused by the comment, and are throwing pointed glances towards Aramis.

Porthos doesn’t understand why Aramis is standing freely amongst Gallagher’s men while Athos is held fast - And why had so easily unmasked Serge and Jacques.

Gallagher pays his men no attention, his eyes on Porthos. “If you stand in my way, you’ll have your friend’s blood on your hands.”

Porthos’ mouth is dry.

“We are going to ride out through these gates. And your friend here,” he gestures to Aramis, “has agreed to join us.”

* * *

_Earlier_

“I’ll bet I’m not who you were hoping to see.”

To Aramis’ eyes the torchlight is blinding - disorienting. Athos’ arm is braced beneath his own and he leans into the support - gritting his teeth as the Irishman rakes his eyes over them in amusement.

“Touching.” 

A quick glance shows four armed men outside the chamber. Athos is shooting him a warning look - as though expecting a suicidal bid for freedom. He returns the look in kind, and grimaces at his friend’s appearance - hair ragged, cheek darkened with bruising, and shoulder bandage already stained. He is sure that he himself isn’t faring any better.

“I didn’t hope to see you again either,” Gallagher is saying, “but your Musketeer dogs don’t know when to give up.” 

“And what do you want with us?” Athos asks, eyes roving over Gallagher’s masked men. 

Aramis can guess. The man needs hostages. His hat is askew and his demeanour dishevelled. The night siege must be taking its toll, and Aramis suspects his nerves are fraying. Aramis balks at being instrumental in the gunman’s escape, but his heart is soaring at the news of reinforcements, and the fact that Gallagher has not found Anne. He feels some of his customary his levity returning.

Gallagher shoves his pistol into his belt and approaches, holding tenuously to his mercenary bearing. “Wrists.”

Aramis fails to avoid Gallagher’s grasp and his hands are brought roughly together. The Irishman’s breath is hot on his face. “And you thought the difficult part was breaking into the convent...” he says, watching the man’s face for a reaction.

The cord is uncomfortably tight. In a last small act of defiance he manages to grasp Gallagher’s sleeve before the man can pull away, and quip, “You only had to ask nicely.”

“Think you’re funny - don’t you?” Aramis’ back hits the wall as Gallagher’s hand suddenly wraps about his throat, thumb pressing down painfully on his windpipe. “You Musketeers -” 

Athos’ supporting arm is gone, and through bleary vision Aramis sees his friend grappling to break Gallagher’s stranglehold. 

“Get back -”

The fingers at his throat are ripped away. Blessed air returns. Athos and Gallagher’s arms are still locked together - and they twist - neither willing to relinquish the hold. A calculated elbow to Athos’ injured shoulder finally ends the skirmish, sending the Musketeer to the floor.

The sudden quiet is disconcerting, and Aramis’ rasping breath is loud in the confined space. He quashes the cough that is rising is his heaving chest and curses his runaway tongue - biting harshly into his lip to prevent himself from saying anything more.

Gallagher spits. His expression is feral and his words punctuated by laboured breaths “ - arrogant - privileged-.” He breaks off with a curse and wipes his mouth, regaining control. “I’d like to see you survive without a full belly or any prospect of putting food on the table - without your fancy uniforms and guard duty...”

Aramis takes in the words - sympathises - but cannot condone the man’s actions - especially when held fast by his lackies.

Gallagher is looking between them, his eyes coming to rest on Aramis’ bloody side wound.

“Get up.” 

Athos rises stiffly, allowing Gallagher to take his arms. As the gunman binds his wrists, Aramis catches his friend’s gaze to offer a silent apology, and finds the other’s eyes pained, but considering.

“You only need one hostage to negotiate your release.”

“Athos,” Aramis warns, beneath his breath.

Athos continues. “And by land or sea - you’ll have an easier time of it with only one. I outrank him. Take me.”

_By land or sea._

Aramis groans inwardly. _No, Athos. I do not have the strength for this._ He is unsure what Athos is hoping to achieve with the ploy. Surely Porthos, d’Artagnan and reinforcements will soon be in a position to facilitate their release. He risks a quick glance up, but his friend’s jaw is set - and the signal clear. _At least_ , he thinks, _I look and feel the part._

Before Gallagher notices the unusual wording of Athos’ request, Aramis drops to his knees. “No,” he breaths, “do not leave me here - not in the dark again.” He twists his features into desperation, clutching at the Irishman’s knees and willing the man to take pity. 

Surprised and angry, Gallagher pulls out of Aramis’ reach. “Lock him up.”

“No!” Aramis fights the arms holding him, allowing angry tears to start into his eyes as they begin to drag him towards the dark chamber. “I’ll show you,” he blurts out, “outside the convent - I’ll show you where she’s hidden.” 

Aramis considers himself to be a fairly talented actor; Porthos has often remarked that he might have gone on the stage. He enjoys playing a part, and his thespianism has allowed the Inseparables to pull off a number of unlikely successes. It does not usually cost him to dredge up false emotion for a good cause, but now his side _burns_ as the masked men drag him across the floor, and his pitiful tones are more truth than fiction.

Gallagher had turned away, but now he looks back at the prone Musketeer.

“Do not lock me in there ,” Aramis pleads again, knowing his eyes are shining with sincerity. “The darkness, and the rats…” He looks away, letting his mouth crumple in feigned self disgust.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Athos’ mouth twitch - rats? - and restrains himself from taking it too far. He briefly imagines the look on the Mother Superior’s face at the thought of rats in her cellars. 

“Aramis!” Athos’ words are touched with an aristocratic disgust that is sure to grate on Gallagher’s nerves. “You will tell him _nothing_.” 

Aramis is suddenly being hauled to his feet and he and Gallagher are eye-to-eye. Aramis begins to understand Athos' intent. The gunman is primed to believe his change of heart - the man’s resentful opinion of the King’s men fueling his prejudice. Two hostages are superfluous - but one hostage and one informant?

Athos takes a threatening step towards Aramis. “You are a Musketeer. Your loyalty is to the Crown. I will not let your _weakness_ take us both down.” Hands pull Athos away from him. 

Mutters from behind hint that the men are impatient to move on - that they have wasted too much time in retrieving the hostages.

“Take me with you,” he says to Gallagher, throwing a disillusioned scowl in Athos’ direction. “I won’t die for Louis and his Spanish wh-” he breaks off, the slander against Anne sticking in his throat. “I’ll renounce- I’ll help you.” 

_He must be desperate_ , Aramis thinks, as Gallagher draws his knife to cut the cords. He holds out his wrists eagerly, but Gallagher makes no move to free him. Aramis feels the color drain from his face as he sees what Gallagher is holding out to him - his riding crop.

“Prove it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the lovely comments on the last chapter - very encouraging - I will reply shortly. Apologies that this one took longer than expected. As you will just have read, the boys unexpectedly devised a plan of their own and turned the story in a different direction. It was fun to try a little bit of Porthos' point-of-view in this one.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Comments and feedback welcome :)
> 
> _**Chapter title:** Pion empoisonné - A pawn is said to be ‘poisoned’ because its capture can result in a positional disadvantage_


	4. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His whitened knuckles bring forth memories of the surgeon's knife, teetering on the edge between hurt and healing, and Athos hopes his friend understands the necessity of this end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter at last. Many apologies for the wait. I hope the length of the chapter makes up for it, and that you find it an exciting conclusion to the story :)

“Take me with you. I won’t die for Louis and his Spanish wh-” Aramis breaks off. “I’ll renounce- I’ll help you.” 

“Prove it.”

Athos lifts his head slowly. The hair clinging irritatingly to his forehead obscures his view, but hides neither Gallagher's intent nor Aramis’ sudden pallor.

A brief twinge of guilt is quickly subsumed by the need to ensure that they are not expendable. Gallagher’s conclusion had been easy to read. _Only one hostage is required. Leave the wounded Musketeer to die, or shoot him where he stands. He’s not worth the trouble to keep alive._ To gamble Aramis’ life by trusting in reinforcements was not an option. If help did not come, how long before infection set in?

The moment Aramis’ hands are free he is tearing at the buckles of his pauldron with bloody fingers. Discarded, it lands at Athos knees with a soft thud.

Good. They will see the urgency - the _desire_ \- to be free of old loyalties. 

Athos steels himself as Aramis stretches out his hand for the crop - but the marksman makes no move towards him. Aramis’ free hand brushes his mouth in a familiar gesture - pained indecision. He is faltering, searching for other options. But there are four pistols behind and before. It is too late to wish that Aramis had kept the knife. Lodged deep in Athos' own boot, trapped beneath him, the weapon could be of no use to them.

"Don't take us for fools." Gallagher’s sharp eyes seize upon Aramis’ brief hesitation. "A man's word is only as good as his deeds. If you’re breaking with the Musketeers, prove it - to us and to them."

Athos wills his breath to slow. Naturally it has come to this. The successful assault on the convent had shown the Irishman's tenacity - his intelligence. Gallagher’s remaining dignity, that of keeping his word, renders him no less suspicious of treachery in others.

Hoping to splinter Aramis’ disquiet, Athos pitches violently towards the other Musketeer. Hands force him roughly back as he offers a threat in the tone he usually reserves for the scum of Paris’ night life. “Do this - betray your country - and you will not be granted the _luxury_ of a hanging.”

His friend's expression hardens with resolution, and in one stride Aramis is standing over him, the short, flexible cane resting ominously against his neck. His whitened knuckles bring forth memories of the surgeon's knife, teetering on the edge between hurt and healing, and Athos hopes his friend understands the necessity of this end.

The hands pinning Athos’ arms clamp down. The grip pulls against his shoulder, searing black spots across his vision - but he holds the position, resuming his tirade of threats - hoping to goad Aramis into action. “..I will personally see that you are thr-”

The first vicious strike throws him off balance - the sharp burn to his cheekbone briefly stunning him with its intensity. A second backhand cut takes him across the jaw. He sucks in a breath as the third overlays the first - at the impact on the already damaged skin, and tenses in expectation of another - but it does not come. The reprieve is short, the muscles and tendons in his shoulder having shifted with the blows, and the dull throb now a raging fire. He needs a moment to adjust - his arm trembling - but Aramis is grasping him roughly by the collar, angling so Gallagher can see.

“I wouldn’t follow you now-” The hurt contempt in Aramis’ voice is convincing. “-and I should have done this long ago.” Aramis pulls him close and spits in his face.

Athos tries to flinch away, but Aramis tightens his grip. Amusement from Gallagher’s men, who enjoy seeing the seemingly arrogant Musketeer taken down a peg, is less hurtful than the apologetic waver in Aramis’ eyes.

Allowed to fall back, Athos clenches his trapped hands with the desire to wipe his face. The blows have likely broken the skin but have done no serious damage - ever accurate Aramis - taking care not to risk his eyes. He feels his lip start to bleed. Would it be enough?

Gunshots sound above, and the Musketeers share the briefest of looks. Perhaps…

Gallagher grasps Aramis by his shoulder, and his friend flinches at the touch, breathing hard. “You. Go. As soon as we’re clear, you’ll take us to the Queen. If you help us, you’ll get a cut of the reward.” Gallagher catches his arm again as he turns to move. “And if you run…”

He leaves the threat hanging as Aramis staggers unsteadily to the front of the group, clawing his fingers along the stone of the wall. Athos sees the effort it is taking his friend to pull himself up the stone stairs, and wonders if, after all, their ploy would be in vain.

* * *

A rending screech as the convent gates swing open, and the air explodes with flying shot and powder. Gallagher’s men are damnably well trained; the arms holding him do not loosen in the face of the sudden fire fight. One man goes down to their left, and Athos eyes his dropped weapon only to be hauled roughly sideways behind the wall.

Their rescue party is small, but that shot had been true. Porthos or d’Artagnan?

A single shot follows, skimming off the stone of the archway.

In a moment reminiscent of their first encounter, pinned against the convent walls, Athos gains Gallagher’s attention. “You've failed, but can ride away from here a free man. Forget your mission.”

“I don’t think so,” Gallagher says sardonically. “Get on your knees.” 

Athos is taken off-guard and hesitates. Dragged out from behind cover, his feet are swiftly kicked out from beneath him, and his knees strike the hard cobbles. Breath stolen by the impact, he stiffens as Gallagher's pistol slides down the neck of his jacket to rest against his collarbone.

“Musketeers - show yourselves!”

The call of birds. The soft fall of humid rain. Surrounding trees provide excellent cover; the musketeers are well hidden. Athos is soon sweating with the effort of holding the awkward position. Acutely aware of the heavy gun muzzle pressing down on his neck, he glances skyward, hoping to catch a few raindrops on his parched lips.

In the quiet, Aramis steps out into the archway, both arms raised in a gesture of parley. “Musketeers - you know me. Come forward and we can discuss terms.”

* * *

_Later_

“We are going to ride out through these gates. And your friend here,” Gallagher gestures to Aramis, “has agreed to join us.” 

Aramis' pauldron is missing. Porthos is not sure how he missed the fact before. His friend looks suddenly smaller without the familiar symbol at his shoulder, and as the marksman turns to glance at Gallagher... is that blood at Aramis’ side - soaking all the way down his leg? Just how badly is he injured? Porthos shakes his head, breathing out his anger through his nose.

“So what’s it to be, Musketeer?” Gallagher asks. “Your friend, or your duty?”

“Walk away, Porthos,” Aramis says, his voice bitter, dangerous.

 _What is Aramis playing at?_ Porthos oscillates, wary of showing anything on his face that might place his friends in further jeopardy. He does not know how to hide his feelings like Athos, or laugh off the situation like Aramis. Anger must be his facade.

“Damn you,” he says, shaking his head and stepping back with his arms by his sides to indicate his reluctant withdrawal. “If you harm them-”.

“Very wise.” Gallagher gives him a twisted smile. “Throw aside your weapons and get down on the ground.”

Porthos leads by example, noisily casting aside his own sword and following it with a pistol and knife. He shares a look with Athos as they kneel at the same level, Jaques and Serge following his lead. 

“Flat on your faces."

Porthos throws the Irishman a dark look before obeying. The grass is wet, seeping through his leathers. Damp blades of grass press against his cheek, irritating, but he doesn’t dare move to push them aside. He can’t see - feels exposed. 

Heavy footfalls approach. Their weapons are retrieved. A sudden quiet.

“Leave them.” Aramis’ voice - harsh - fear behind the words.

“Change of heart, Musketeer?” Gallagher asks with a dangerous edge.

“Hardly -” Aramis says, more controlled. “But fire and you’ll call any Musketeer within miles down on your backs.”

A pause. Porthos tenses, limbs stretched tight with the desire to pull Jacques bodily under his protection. He should not have brought the boy into this.

“If we see any sign that you’re following, Musketeer...” Gallagher voice warns, receding.

Fists clenched and jaw tight, Porthos holds his position - feeling Jacques shaking beside him, until the sounds of men and hooves fades.

* * *

He knows now that he has underestimated the man.

The rain sheets down with a harsh cross wind that distracts from the smell of the horse - his own thirst - but not the heat of the man’s body pressed against his back. Each hoofbeat strips away a little more strength - a little more dignity. Only Gallagher's stale breath on his neck forces him into alertness.

The man had been vigilant - given them no opportunities. Held painfully forward in the saddle, Athos considers dragging them both down. It would be easy. Spook the horse. Lock a foot about the other man’s and drag them both sideways. But he would come off the worse for it, and it would achieve little.

“Here.” 

The copse of trees where Aramis signs for them to stop is not so far from the convent. Riding behind, the marksmen is slumped forward against one of their captors, his face hidden behind drenched hair. The halt in their progress is as much for Aramis’ endurance, then, as increasing the chances of Porthos following.

The thought of his friend’s roguish grin briefly gives Athos heart. Porthos would follow them with the tenacity of a dog with a scent, and there was little chance he had truly been disarmed. The man kept a small armory hidden away under his sizable jerkin.

Gallagher dismounts first, hand fisted in the back of the Musketeer’s jacket - allowing him no opportunity to gain control of the reins. Athos’ forced dismount is ungraceful, his foot catching on the stirrup and sending him sprawling. The ground is awash with mud, but is no less solid for it.

“Time to kill the spare?” 

With Gallagher standing over him Athos cannot see which man has spoken.

“Information from our tame Musketeer first.”

Their last chance is slipping away with the mud that sucks thickly at his clothes. Fighting the hands that pull and shove him up and across the earth, back-first into the closest tree, it only takes a single blow to his stomach, still nauseated from the ride, to bring him to his knees.

“He knows nothing,” Athos gasps, searching for the marksman’s slim build amongst the group of men. “Kill him before he betrays you too.”

Aramis is leaning heavily against a nearby tree, his jacket is hanging open and bright red shining through the white makeshift bandage. “That's a fine sentiment coming from you,” Aramis breaths, the vigour gone from his playacting as he eyes the rope being looped between Athos’ bound wrists with apprehension.

Gallagher cuts in - impatient - the familiar question. “Where is she?”

“You’ll never find her now,” Athos spits. “Anything he tells you is a lie to s-” The men heft the rope over the branch overhead, pulling his arms above - trapping him - stealing his breath and blackening his vision with the pain of it. His last chance to retrieve the knife - gone.

“Check his orders -” Aramis says, his hands pressed against his abdomen - holding himself together. “ - I can read them for you.”

Gallagher steps over to Aramis. “That wasn’t our arrangement.”

Aramis raises his palms defensively, licking his lip with nervous agitation. “Trust me. The orders will tell you everything you need to know.”

Gallagher shakes his head. “ _You_ retrieve the orders - then we’ll see.”

A small mistake. All they needed. Athos lets his head fall back, the swirling rain hiding his relief.

“Athos,” Aramis steps cautiously towards him, palms upraised as though approaching a bucking horse. “Don’t fight me in this.” 

Athos tests the ropes above and twists his rain-slicked wrists to put weight on his good arm. As soon as Aramis is in range Athos drives his boot into his friend’s ankle with enough force to bring the man to his knees. “Go to hell!”

The ensuing scuffle hides Aramis’ ulterior movements, and even draws a short laugh from one of the men at the sight of the Musketeers scrabbling in the mud.

With the cords biting angrily into his wrists, Athos cringes as Aramis’ first searches the wrong boot. But then Aramis is clawing himself up so that they are eye-to-eye once more, and the dagger is safely concealed between their bodies.

Close-up Aramis’ face is shining with a sickly sheen of sweat, his usually groomed hair plastered across his forehead. He wraps one chilled and slippery hand around Athos’ throat and feigns a search of the swordsman's jacket with the other - giving them both a brief moment of respite and shared resolve. 

Move!

Aramis recklessly slices through the rope above, freeing Athos from the tree branch. Athos swears at the foolhardy choice - having been confident he would take Gallagher down at the first opportunity - and gasps at the sudden lack of support as his arms are released from the torturous position. Over his friend's shoulder the light of understanding sparks in Gallagher’s eyes, and the Irishman levels his pistol at Aramis' back. 

As the hammer falls, he shoulders Aramis sideways and grasps the closest of Gallagher’s guards, dragging him into the line of fire. The joy of moving, fighting, only lasts a moment before he is falling, unable to catch himself. Landing with a sickly splash, the dead man half atop him, he sees that Aramis has somehow kept his feet and is already moving - throwing himself at the next armed man.

Shoving at the dead weight, Athos rolls in time to escape the shot of the third assailant which pummels into the earth beside his head, muddy water exploding in a blinding spray. But the man keeps coming, his pistol flipped as Athos struggles to rise. Ducking the first swipe, he gives up on finding his feet and instead scrabbles for the dead man's pistol in the mud, praying the gunpowder will ignite, and fires.

As the last man sinks backwards, silence descends, and Athos’ own breath is suddenly loud to his ears. A creeping sensation - and he turns.

"I'm impressed." Gallagher, bleeding from the head, is still standing.

Frustrated hope rips a groan from his lips as he finds Aramis on his back in the mud, the point of Gallagher's blade at his throat and boot pressing lightly against his injured side. 

"Athos," Aramis huffs, head tipped back so that his breathless words do not further expose his throat to the blade. "It seems we’re back where this started.” He flicks his fingers at Gallagher’s spent pistol beside him. “But this time we're all out. He can't touch you. Go... find Porthos." The marksman squints as the rain falls in his eyes, and the weariness in his tone shows how little he expects Athos to heed his words. “God knows we've cheated fate so many times today that once more won’t make a difference.”

"Don't be a fool," Athos breaths, crawling to his feet.

The body of the man Aramis had killed is bent back over a tree stump, the knife protruding obscenely from his chest. Athos staggers over to retrieve a sword from the man’s scabbard, and clumsily severs the cords around his wrists, freeing his hands at last. Gallagher makes no move to prevent him as the swordsman tests the rapier’s weight and balance, blade slicing briefly through the falling rain.

"It was a convincing act.” There is no bitterness in the Irishman’s tone, only amusement and respect. “You can take some small comfort in that.” 

“The critics will be thrilled.” Aramis flinches as the man nicks the skin of his throat with the blade, falling silent.

“My men did their duty, but you two clawed your way back out of the very grave.”

“Your men were skilled and resourceful -” Athos concedes thickly, his mouth parched with disuse and thirst, “- could have done something with their lives.” 

“Life wasn’t kind to them - and opportunities lacking. Not like for some.”

“Don’t-” Athos warns with the point of his blade, dark anger rising as the press of Gallagher’s foot at Aramis’ side has his friend arching away.

“It wasn’t hard to believe Musketeers would turn on each other,” Gallagher says, briefly easing the pressure. “That an officer would throw his man to the wolves to save his own skin. But there’s a certain comfort in knowing that my first impressions were correct - that you seem to be a man of your word."

Athos gives no reply, distracted by the twitch of Aramis’ gloved hand - revealing his friend’s desire to risk grasping the sword end to turn it aside.

Gallagher considers him before continuing. “It’s clear you’ll risk your life for your comrades and for your Queen, but I cannot speak for how your treat your family - your _wife_.”

A missed heartbeat - and Athos is suddenly reeling. _Not like this_.

“Athos?” Aramis’ eyes are narrowed, confused.

“I have no wife.” The words pass his lips, but they are broken, weak. His customary control fails him, briefly revealing raw fear to Gallagher’s pale, watching eyes. That Aramis should learn of his past _here_ , from the lips of another. That the last expression on his friend’s face would be hurt - censure - _disgust_ -

“But what do I know of Musketeers and their honour,” the Irishman runs on, skimming over the simple threat that had nearly brought him to his knees.

“Then find out,” Athos breaths, shuddering in relief, in a strange kind of gratitude for the assassin’s silence. It would all come out, of course now it must. But not here. Not now. And on his own terms. Feeling the cold sweat slowly recede, he lifts his blade and wills it to remain steady. 

He does not expect his audacious request to be granted, but Gallagher shrugs. “You've given me a worthy challenge - and there have been few enough of late. There’ll be a blade between my shoulders when they hear I've failed. It may as well be yours.”

Gallagher's sword swings up, freeing Aramis, and they come together at once with a dull clash of steel. Any debt Athos feels for the man’s silence is wiped clean as the Irishman immediately bears down hard on his wounded shoulder. Athos turns the strike, forcing the other to go wide. 

He judges the man's skill with a blade to be inferior to his own, but Athos’ own infirmity has almost leveled the contest. The freedom, the raw physical exertion after so long constrained in both movement and word, gives him a slight edge. Forced back into a defensive crouch under a flurry of strikes, Gallagher again lashes out at his damaged arm with his sword hilt. Deflecting the blow, Athos fails to block the following backhand strike, but as Gallagher’s foot drives hard into his shin, he is ready for it - and shifts the balance. They both go down, Athos’ blade thrust deep beneath the Irishman’s ribs as they fall. 

If Gallagher cries out, the sound is masked by a gunshot from across the clearing. Porthos announcing his presence.

The weight of the gunman’s body is crushing; a hot rush of blood is spilling over his chest. But Aramis is there, wiping his mouth after emptying his stomach, but with strength enough to drag the dead weight from atop him. And unclenching stiff fingers from the sword hilt, he is throwing his arm about his friend’s shoulders in silent, shaking, gratitude.

* * *

“That,” Porthos says, shaking his pistol in Aramis’ face, “was sheer stupidity.”

The moment of gut wrenching helplessness when the trees had opened up to the bloody scene still had Porthos in a cold sweat. Three bodies had been stretched out, a fourth was on his knees - bent double as though mortally wounded - and two locked in vicious combat. He had fired his gun skyward, his only recourse at that distance being to declare his arrival, and seen both men fall.

“I’ll thank you to direct any criticism to Athos,” Aramis says shakily, as Porthos slips an arm beneath his and hauls him out of the mud. “He can take the credit for the play - but I gave a brilliant performance.”

“Did you now?” Porthos throws a disgruntled look in Athos’ direction, receiving a weary salute in response that throws a streak of muddy water across Porthos’ jacket. “Careful!”

“The Queen?”

“Treville and D’Artagnan are escorting Her Majesty back to Paris. You should have seen D’Artagnan’s face when she emerged from the tunnel.” He grins at the memory. “He jumped a foot in the air.”

Aramis nods and looks wearily comforted at the news, but his eyes don’t shine with his usual amusement. 

“Let’s get away from this rain and mud,” Porthos says, searching for a patch of dry earth. “We can have a look at that wound.” He feels his friend resisting, eyes straying back to Gallagher’s body, but uses his superior strength to press on.

When Porthos returns to Athos’ side, the swordsman is kneeling across Gallagher’s legs, the ends of his hair dripping as he searches the man’s pockets.

He lays a hand on Athos’ shoulder, “Let me -” he says, kneeling to assume the task. Athos sits back on his heels, but watches Porthos’ progress with a grim intensity that makes the large musketeer strangely uncomfortable.

Porthos uses his thumb to flip open the lid of the small box that he finds in Gallagher’s pocket. It is a battered thing, containing nothing but a scrap of paper and a few coins. It has, Porthos sees, a dried flower stitched into its padded lid. Nothing of consequence at first glance - they could go over its contents once they had regrouped with the men.

“Are we done here?” he asks, eager to be out of the rain, and see his friends’ wounds cleaned and patched up.

Athos nods, and Porthos grasps his friend’s arm to help him up. The warm spread of blood soaks through his glove, alerting him to Athos’ shoulder injury, and he quickly releases his hold. “We’ll get your shoulder seen to,” he says reassuringly, noting the sudden pallor of the man’ face.

“It’s nothing,” Athos says distractedly, his chin set and eyes still straying to Gallagher’s box.

“What happened?” Porthos asks sceptically, his eyes raking over the blood stained leather.

“Knife wound,” Athos replies shortly, distracted, and Porthos grimaces in sympathy. “But Aramis was shot.”

“It’s not a competition,” Porthos admonishes as his stomach clenches in sympathy.

* * *

“I heard you missed a shot.” Porthos regards Aramis with mock severity as he carefully cuts through the fabric.

“Lies.” Aramis offers a glare to Athos which melts into a half smile. His colour has returned now that he is comfortably seated, but he still seems unlike his usual self. “Ah - and this was an expensive shirt, too.” 

Porthos begins suspect his friend has lost more than a favourite shirt, but he says nothing, allowing Aramis a long swig before pushing him back, and beginning to pour the liquid gingerly over his wound.

“The sisters - are they..?” Aramis begins, before baring his teeth with a hiss of pain.

“Don’t tell me you found time for womanising in the middle of a siege?”

Aramis throws Athos an odd look, before explaining. “The nuns - they stayed to help fend off the attack.” 

“- I’ll see to it,” Athos offers.

“No need,” Porthos gestures back towards the convent. “I sent Serge and Jacques.”

“Your new _recruits_ ,” Athos drawls, sounding simultaneously unimpressed and amused.

* * *

“I wish you’d left him alive,” Porthos grunts later as he finishes rinsing mud from Athos’ shoulder. Aramis’ account of the siege was boiling his blood. “I’d have liked to finish him off.” 

He flings the empty water skin aside and grasps a clean cloth for the welts across Athos’ jaw and cheek.

“He had principles... of a kind,” Athos says, flinching a little as Porthos begins his ministrations. Finding Aramis’ suddenly at his elbow, Porthos happily surrenders the cloth to the medic’s more practiced hand.

Athos’ tone of respect is surprising, but again Porthos waits to hear the rest of the tale before offering his opinion on the Irishman’s _principles_. 

Sitting back on his heels and thankful for finding his friends more or less in one piece, it is a few moments before Porthos notices the tremor in the marksman’s ever-steady grip. Athos has noticed too, his jaw tense under Aramis’ hand, but he allows their friend to clean the worst of the cuts before he speaks. “Aramis?”

The marksman stills and breaths out through his nose, lips pressed together. The pad of his thumb brushes Athos’ damaged cheek. “Forgive me?” he asks.

“If you’ll forgive me for asking it of you.”

Aramis sighs and looks away, clearly finding the words unsatisfactory.

“Forgiveness for what?” Porthos wishes to offer what little reassurance he can.

Athos replies flatly in Aramis’ direction. “Saving our lives.”

“Causing you pain." Aramis runs an agitated hand through damp and tangled hair. "I’m no physician, but I like to think that my hands bring healing to my friends - not harm.”

Porthos catches on and shares a look with Athos. Clearly Gallagher had demanded that Aramis prove his defection with more than words.

“It’s nothing more than a few scratches. I’ve had worse from Porthos' fists in training.”

“That’s different.”

“We're soldiers," Porthos says, "Blood on our hands is the price we pay to keep the peace - to keep those we protect from worse harm.” The words seem to ease Aramis a little. It's an often repeated sentiment between them, never quite ringing true, but the closest they came to a kind of acceptance.

“For what it is worth," Athos concedes in the face of Aramis’ continuing self recrimination, "you have my forgiveness. But I cannot promise never to ask it of you again.” A half smile, and the matter is settled between them. At least for the time being.

Porthos leaves them sitting side-by-side and returns to his saddlebags. He smiles to see Aramis’ head finally tipped back against the tree in a surrender to exhaustion - Athos’ hand resting gratefully on his friend’s leg. He eyes Gallagher’s horses, considering how best to move his injured friends to safety. 

Returning with a replacement for Aramis’ soiled shirt, Porthos gently shakes the marksman’s shoulder to rouse him. “This will have to do for now.”

Aramis slowly draws the voluminous (but clean and dry) shirt over his head, making a show of becoming lost in it. “A perfect fit...” 

“Back to the convent?” Porthos asks.

Athos and Aramis share a sceptical look. The idea of returning to the place of their imprisonment was clearly unappealing. “Must we?”

“Not to worry,” Porthos says with a reassuring heartiness. “This time nothing can go wrong.”

Athos raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You’ll have me with you.”

“That, my friend, will make all the difference.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conclusions are so much trickier than beginnings! The writing process for this story was enjoyable, and amusingly inspired some light research into questions such as: Did musketeers have pockets? How to load a wheel-lock pistol. Origin of the word exit. Can 17th century pistols fire when wet? 
> 
> If you've started watching season 3, you might enjoy my next writing attempt - a little missing scene 'A different kind of war' (spoilers for s3e1 and s3e6): http://archiveofourown.org/works/7009594
> 
> Thanks again for supporting my first effort in this fandom - your comments have been a source of great encouragement and community. It was nerve racking posting up this last instalment, and I hope it didn't disappoint. 
> 
> _**Chapter title:** Finale (chess) - the endgame._


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